


Beacon

by davara



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Mages, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Templars, Tranquil Mages
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-01-26 00:34:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21365233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/davara/pseuds/davara
Summary: There are two things keeping Senior Enchanter Fenora at the Circle of Magi. First, a young mage plagued by nightmares relies on Fenora to keep her magic in check and to protect her from the watchful eyes of the Templars. Second, her ongoing affair with the Knight-Commander. Freedom is not a thought that has crossed her mind for a long, long time, but a choice is forced upon her nonetheless. She is tempted by the promise of a life outside of the Circle, a fantasy she had given up many years before. It is a choice, however, that requires sacrifice.--An original fiction set in the Dragon Age universe. The story and characters within are original creations by the author, and are entirely non-canon.
Kudos: 2





	Beacon

**Author's Note:**

> This is purely a creative writing exercise that I might as well spend in a universe I love and know far too much about. I thought I would post it, mostly to entice me to keep it up, but also on the off chance that someone would enjoy it.

“There are no corners, no holes in which you can hide from the call of the demons who hound you.” The Knight-Captain’s words rang hollow in the apprentice’s quarters. Her fingers thrummed against the pommel of her sword, idly hanging at her hip. It wobbled ever so slightly at her touch, and I found myself more transfixed by the movement than her words. These speeches were common, her tone loud and warm to try and hide the fact that the platitudes were being made up as she went.

“Temptation is as great a foe to a young mage as a spark to a dry field. Take care that it does not ignite,” she turned to me then, a grin threatening to break. “But know that the Maker’s hand guides our blades, ready to defend against the flame.”

_ That’s a shoddy metaphor _. Imagining her swatting a longsword at a burning wheat field was amusing enough to momentarily counter the discomfort of being the wheat. Or was it the fire? Unclear, really. I smiled nonetheless, the silent approval she wanted.

The apprentices, on the other hand, did not care to hide their lack of interest. At least those that had not already succumbed to sleep. Knight-Captain Aisling was content enough whetting her inspirational speeches on me during waking hours, but only as practice for whatever preternatural compulsion she felt to remind the apprentices of the potential threat they pose on a nightly basis. She believed that it might have some benefit, she mentioned once after I asked her about it, a few days after picking up the habit. Before she was Knight-Captain. “Reminding them before they all go off dreaming. Kids might wake up with an abomination for a bunk mate, then where’ll I be?” I had watched her mouth twist as she brought her cup to her lips, and made sipping her tea look like a chore. “Maker forbid I’m the one who has to clean that up.”

_ Well _ , I mused, _ she’s not bringing up Tranquility again, so I suppose it’s not nearly as dismal as last night _. Perhaps dismal is a touch harsh. Aisling always had a softer spot for the children, despite her relative lack of bedside manner. Even so, the apprentices hardly spare her a sideways glance during her nightly addresses anymore. I wondered if she believes it a comfort to them, knowing that the Templars lie in wait to put out the fire, so to speak. Whatever her thoughts, she gave one satisfied nod to the room and turned face, I in close pursuit.

“Fenora,” She started. “Could you have the Tranquil bring the Orlesian’s phylactery to the repository?”

“Which Tranquil, Aisling.”

“The, um. He has a mole on his temple. Brown hair about to his shoulders.”

“Wilbur, Aisling?”

“That’s the one!” She twirled her head around to me, grinning, pointing her finger at me victoriously. “Gwendolyn has butter fingers, it has to be Wilbur.”

“Gwendolyn is also seventy-three.”

“_And _ she has butter fingers.”

I chuckled, in spite of myself. Can hardly blame a woman of her age, but I don’t suppose the Tranquil really retire. I turned to head for the Tranquil’s quarters. “Right away, Knight-Captain.”

“Ah, wait.”

“Yes?”

She had her hand on my waist and I pivoted, her lips hot against mine. Just a moment.

“Aisling!” I hissed, my eyes darting down either end of the corridor. She looked amused.

“Carry on, Senior Enchanter.”

* * *

Florence Lebrun, as it turns out, is not Orlesian. Probably. She’s from the Free Marches. Ostwick, most likely. Lebrun isn’t her last name, just the name of the poor sod who took her in five years ago when he found her wandering around his livestock. Didn’t speak a word to him for a whole winter. Started calling her Florence after a dead wife and she never told him otherwise. Came into her magic just last week, according to the people in the village, although it’s more than likely the farmer was hiding it for longer. He was reportedly of a sympathetic mind, and fond of the girl. There are a couple letters from him on my desk. Opened and undelivered.

“How is the girl?”

“Quiet, Knight-Captain.” Wilbur leaned on his right leg as he stood facing me.

“Suspected as much. Have her moved in with the apprentices by tomorrow night.” I swiveled and gestured for him to leave, and when I turned to face the doorway again he was gone. Fenora was better at these things, making the apprentices feel at home. Especially when my men muscle little girls out of the village square and into a wagon in front of everyone they ever knew. Hard to trust a woman in uniform after that, I’ll wager. They go and rifle through letters and point their swords at timid little fireballs waiting to happen, it’s no wonder the girl’s clammed up. Now seemed like a good time to collapse into my chair.

“Damage is done,” I muttered. “Might as well do some light reading.” I took the letter from the top and unfolded it. It’s written in a careful hand on old, wrinkled paper. Likely not the penmanship of a farmer. Reading letters meant for children is probably in poor taste, but given what I’ve heard of the girl, I likely wouldn’t get anything out of her verbally. Not yet, anyway.

_ Flora, _

_ I hope you're all settled in now. You don’t need to be afraid, child. The Templars are kind so long as you are kind in return. And you are a kind little girl, I know that much. Ser Miriam was asking after you, said her boys missed having you around. Willem’s been by just about every day asking when you’ll be back. I know you must be feeling lonely there, but there are Templars who are there to help you, just like they did back home. Ser Julian is even writing this letter for me, as I’m sure someone is reading this to you. _

_ Your magic is a gift from the Maker, flower. There was a mage who came through who helped your old Pop and cleaned him up real nice. There are plenty of mages who are good, honest folk. Magic doesn’t have to be the only thing you are. Don’t worry, I’m taking good care of your mare. Giving her all sorts of treats. You’ll figure all this out just fine. You’re a clever girl, far more clever than your Pop. I love you, flower. I’ll write you again soon. _

_ Papa _

“Ah, blast.” I set the letter down and picked up the second. The only thing written on it was a poem. A couple lines stood out that I recalled from a book in the library, some trite Fereldan nonsense. Both letters neatly folded in my hand, I stood up to march to my quarters. The girl wasn’t going to have a sudden change of heart tonight, better to leave it to tomorrow and spare the energy I might have spent grousing.

* * *

I sat quietly on the side of the bed, the girl at the other. She was given the guest quarters for her first night, at my behest. Anyone could have seen that she was frightened. Putting her in a room with more children than she’s likely seen in one place before wouldn’t have been a good first impression of the Circle, or so I thought. She wouldn’t speak to anyone, not to the Templars on her way here, not to the First Enchanter when she arrived, and certainly not to me now. What little I could do to make her feel more at ease seemed worth the effort, but I had run out of ideas far too quickly. I tugged at my hair as I met her gaze, which she quickly averted to stare at the dust collecting in the corner. Thinking she might be more comfortable with a mage in place of a Templar was, apparently, wishful thinking. Senior Enchanter might as well have been a fancy title for maleficar, for all the poor dear knew.

The girl had dusty blond hair that was kept in a braid just about to come undone. My hair still tangled in my fingers, I began braiding my own, making a point to look anywhere but at Florence. I felt her gaze slowly returning to me, unable to hide the shift in her weight on the bed.

“You’re a little older than I was when I came to the Circle,” I looked directly at the bedpost in front of me. “Taught myself to braid my hair, but it took a while. I had too much and I didn’t know how to get it all in one bundle. None of my mentors would teach me. Told me it was better to cut it short and be done with it.” I shot her a glance. Her eyes were fixed on me. She didn’t turn away this time.

“That’s a nice ribbon you’ve got in your hair. Did your father braid it for you?” Florence looked at me for a long time before nodding ever so slightly. I might’ve missed it. “He did a nice job.”

We returned to silence for a while as I continued to braid my hair, feeling Florence watch my hands intently. Perhaps she thought I was casting some sort of spell in secret. Perhaps she was simply eager to learn. I was left with two thin braids on either side of my face, held together by two small pieces of twine. “Not as fancy as that ribbon, but it’ll do.” Florence slowly reached for her own hair when I finished, lightly palming her braid before retreating, feeling it about to fall apart.

“Florence,” I began, slowly turning to face her. “Would you like me to braid your hair for you?” She didn’t respond, but she pulled her knees to her chest, her eyes remaining on mine. “We can use that pretty ribbon you have there. No sense wasting it.”

As if on cue, the ribbon slipped from her hair onto the bedspread, Florence only taking note when her hair fell into her face. She swiped it, distraught. Looked on the verge of tears.

“Oh, dear,” I leaned in closer, now that her attention was elsewhere. “I suppose if you don’t want your hair braided, we can tie it around your wrist for safe-keeping.” It sat in her hands a few moments, absorbing her attention. It was a deep shade of burgundy and hung limply in her small hand, glistening in the candlelight. Her eyes didn’t meet mine, but she inched forward slightly, slowly towards me, and set the ribbon down in front of my lap.

“You want me to braid your hair?” I asked again. I waited for a response, but none came. She turned away from me, which was all it seemed I was going to get. Taking her hair in my hand, we remained in silence as I pulled it together in a braid I hoped would last. She seemed to notice I had finished, her hand hesitating over the ribbon tightly bound around her thin hair. I think she was appraising my handiwork. We were both still, then, and I was unsure how to proceed. There was a weight on my chest as I stared at her little back, shrinking in the wide bed made for more than just us two. The hush lingered in the room. I wouldn't have heard the paper flutter into the room from beneath the door, otherwise.

Two letters. Both from Oliver Lebrun, the girl’s father. Opened, presumably, unless they arrived with no envelope. Concealing my displeasure, I glanced at them both quickly, while Florence still stared at the floor. The shorter of the two letters in particular caught my eye.

“Florence,” I began. “Do you like poetry?”

* * *

Papa is in the stables and I am in the village square, waiting for Ser Miriam to finish baking our breakfast. I don’t remember bread as good as Ser Miriam’s, so I think she must bake the best bread in the Free Marches. I told Papa so, and he thinks she bakes the best bread in Thedas. I don’t know, I told him, I haven’t had bread from Orlais. I bet they make good bread in Orlais. He said I should go one day and find out. I told Willem that I was going to go to Orlais to try Orlesian bread and he said Orlesian bread smells bad like Orlesian cheese.

There is a bench outside of Ser Miriam’s bakery and I am sitting here with Willem. His brother is inside helping Ser Miriam because he’s the oldest and the bakery is going to be his when Ser Miriam is too old to bake anymore, he said. I like Bernard’s bread too, but Ser Miriam knows how to bake the spices in the way Papa and I like it. Bernard puts too much in.

I can see the Chantry from the village square, and the people walking in and out for Mother Gertie’s blessing. Mother Gertie doesn’t like us calling her Mother Gertie, she says we should call her Mother Gertrude but she lets Papa call her Mother Gertie. But Papa is her favorite, and he always saves the best and tastiest milk and cheese for the Templars and the Chantry sisters. Papa says I shouldn’t go in the Chantry without him, not even to give them the milk and cheese. My magic is secret and the Chantry sisters would tell the Templars and the Templars would take me to the Circle, even Ser Julian who gives me extra treats at the end of service if I’m good and I promise not to tell anyone. So as long as Papa is in the stables with the horses, I’m just going to watch the Chantry from Ser Miriam’s bench.

“Here you go, Flora. Two loaves for each of you. Had a bit of the nutmeg left over, hope you like it. Give Ollie my best, dear.” The bread is wrapped in nice paper and tied with twine and I say thank you, Ser Miriam, and give her the bits that Papa gave me this morning. Willem says something about nutmeg that I don’t hear because I’m already taking the bread back to Papa. I don’t really know what nutmeg is, except that it makes the bread taste warm and sweet and it’s Papa’s favorite. We only get it a few times a year when the right merchants come to visit because they don’t always have nutmeg to sell. So Ser Miriam bakes it special for me and Papa.

Papa isn’t in the stables when I get back home, so I bring the bread in the house and I wait for him. Except I start to worry that my bread won’t be as warm when he gets back, so I take a little bit from mine and I eat it, and I remember why Papa likes nutmeg so much. Papa takes a while and I wonder if he is hiding in the barn or maybe he went to deliver the milk without me. I put my coat on again and I look in the barn and call for him but he doesn’t say anything, so I go back to the village square with his bread. I ask Bernard if he saw Papa but he hasn’t seen anything, and maybe I should look in the Chantry. I will think about it, I tell him, and I look around some more. I find Ser Julian who is talking with a lady I don’t know and I ask him if he’s seen my Papa. He frowns and tells the young lady goodbye and says that he will help me find him. I hold Papa’s bread in my right hand and I hold Ser Julian’s hand in my left. He starts walking back home and I tell him that I already looked there but he says he’s going to check again. And then he starts walking faster and faster and lets go so he can run and he tells me I should go back to the village and I see smoke coming from the house that wasn’t there before. 

I don’t listen to Ser Julian. Maybe there’s a fire, and I’m worried about Papa. I’m running and I realized that I dropped Papa’s bread and I stop for a second to go pick it up but I hear yelling coming from the house and other loud noises so I keep running. Our door is already open and I see Ser Julian and I see some other people I don’t know and I see Papa who is lying down on the ground and holding his stomach. He sees me first and he looks scared and I start to walk towards him but he starts waving his hand for me to go away. I look at the men I don’t know and they have knives and one of them has an axe and a torch and I think he was the one who set the house on fire. I start crying and the tears feel hot and I don’t know if it’s from the fire but everything starts to feel hot and all I can think about is the fire and I want it to stop. I grab my coat so hard that my fingers hurt and I ask Andraste very hard if she can please put the fire out and then my fingers are very cold. I stop hearing as many noises and I open my eyes and the fire is gone and there is ice and snow in the kitchen that’s dark from the ashes and Ser Julian is looking at me and so are the men I don’t know and then Ser Julian is looking at them and I close my eyes again but when I open them the men are on the ground and Ser Julian is walking over to me now.

“Flora,” He says. “Florence, are you alright?” I’m crying because I’m not alright, Papa is still on the ground and he’s crying now and I know Ser Julian saw me make the ice and snow and I ask him if I have to go to the Circle now. He sighs and looks at Papa and then back to me and he says yes, Florence. I want to run and cry and make sure Papa is alright but Ser Julian is holding my hand very tightly.

* * *

_ My toes are chilled _

_ But the fire is lit _

_ And I am waiting _

_ For a warmth _

_ I know will seep _

_ Well enough into my bones _

_ Well enough to think softly _

_ On simple things _

_ Like winter comforts. _

  
_ \-- From _ A Compilation of Ferelden Prose and Poetry _ by Owen Byrne, 9:8 Dragon _


End file.
